Kissables
by AllIwantedwasL
Summary: An ever-growing collection of mattxmello, lightxL, NearxMello and Bxeveryone drabbles. yaoi, mostly humorous/sweet/romantic unless it's BB. :
1. The Best at Something

Matt looked over at Mello.

"What are you writing?"

Mello looked down at his notebook. _"...the best dresser that died like a dog, Mihael Keehl."_

"WHAT?!" Matt turned all the way around to face his room-mate, who was huddled over a desk, munching a bar of chocolate and scribbling furiously.

"I've decided to become a writer."

Matt just blinked and quirked an eyebrow. "You died like a dog?"

"I think I will, yeah. Does it sound weird?"

"A little."

"Well, at least you didn't make a comment about my saying I was 'best-dressed'." Mello grinned.

"How could I lie to you, Mr. Keehl?"


	2. Close your eyes

Mello scrambled across the couch, sticking his face right up to Near's.

"Do you ever blink?" Mello demanded suddenly. He clapped his hands loudly in front of Near's nose. The boy didn't even flinch. He was twirling a row of red squares on his Rubix Cube.

"No." Near said flatly. "I just don't blink around you because I'm afraid something will happen when my eyes are closed." _Click-click-click..._the row lined up, completing a side of the cube. Mello pondered what Near had said. He smiled widely.

"Don't be afraid. Here-" Mello took two fingers and gently pulled Near's eyelids down. The skin felt warm and soft, like fleece. Near shivered. Mello clasped his other hand under Near's chin and tilted it upward. Near let the Rubix Cube fall out of his hands. Instead, he took hold of Mello's wrists, as if he were going to fall over without the blonde's support.

"What exactly do you think is going to happen now that your eyes are closed?" Mello spoke softly, his voice almost a whisper.

"I don't know. Something terrible..." Near mumbled. Mello stared at his mouth as he spoke. His thin lips were pale pink and looked like petals on his ivory skin. Mello leaned in. Closed his own eyes. Near's petal lips parted as Mello's gently sealed the two boys together. Mello took his fingers off of Near's eyelids, and instead twisted his long fingers into Near's snow-white hair. Near put his tiny hands on Mello's stomach. The older boy smiled into Near's mouth, and pulled apart.

"Was that 'something horrible' ?"

Near looked down at his lap, then slowly he met Mello's gaze. He was blushing. "No..." He said.

"Well then, close your eyes again." Near did. All by himself.


	3. Not the hero

"What if I'm not the hero..." Light bent down to be at L's level, taking his hand and staring solemnly at the detective. L raised an eyebrow.

"What if- " Light paused, and looked away, "What if I'm the bad guy?"

L calmly removed Light's hand from his own. "Look, Raito, First of all, I _know _you're the bad guy, I've been saying it ever since I heard about the case. Secondly, I think "_Twilight"_'s not a good choice for someone your age."

Light shuffled away, mumbling something incoherent. He looked sulky.

L stood up and put his hand on Light's shoulder. He looked Light dead in the eye, and said very seriously: "Oh, and third, I would _not_ be Bella."


	4. Tadpoles

The sun hung low over the Wammy House, and the trees burned golden and red with its last sleepy rays. Two boys are walking up to the huge double doors of their home's entrance, their shadows long and distorted. One boy, his shoulder-length blonde hair damp from the boys' adventures at the river, is carrying an empty jam jar in both hands.

"Another Summer, another failed attempt to relocate Moby Tadpole into a jar." Mello kicks a clump of dried earth. His companion, red-headed and touting a large net, throws his arm around him.

"Maybe it's a sign from Mother Nature that all of Earth's creatures should live their lives as she intended." He holds up the net and fractured orange sunlight sifts through, glinting off of Mello's hair. Mello smiles.

"Oh, and what did Mother Nature intend for you?" Matt looks away for a second, then ducks under the net and kisses Mello. After a few moments he pulls apart.

"To be with _you_, silly."


	5. Peaches and Chocolate

I drink you in like a glass of warm milk; like soup from a wooden spoon.

I taste peach skin between my molars because we sat naked in front of each other and ate peaches; you said I couldn't touch you

until I got to the pit.

Now, with your hair like cornflakes on your pillow, I smoke my last cigarette and toss the empty packet, wanting so badly to kiss

you.

The smoke is like a ghost, twisting through the almost darkness with a silent holiness; and you say I'm not religious.

My religion is found when I feel your pale back arch and that pain of your nails in my back. There's redemption in those bloody half-

moons on my shoulders.

I stub out the gray remains of my cigarette and gently, so as not to wake you, get up and go stand by the window.

Our bedroom is dark, but outside the neon breasts of an ad for beer glow, lighting up our 4am.

There are also cars, but only a few, and they speed away so fast it's like they're scared of what they might see if they slow down.

They're scared of our city.

It's chilly, and I'm only wearing boxers. Remember them? They're the pair you got me for my birthday when I turned sixteen.

I was embarrassed because you were so flirtatious, and back then I didn't know that I didn't want anyone else but you.

They're black with a white _M_ on the right thigh, and they're soft because I've worn them so much.

The street stretches out forever, pocked with chain restaurants and dry cleaners' and a donut place. The donut place that sells your

favorite: triple chocolate.

My laugh is low and quiet, dry with nicotine and post-coital fatigue. I lean against the window-frame and watch your chest rise and

fall.

Rise and fall.

The burns on your body are like embroidery on a quilt; dancing dipping, your pink flesh is hardened into meringue peaks and valleys.

You were afraid when I lit a candle, but asked me to drip the wax on your hand. Please, you said. I told you I didn't want to hurt you.

You can't, you whispered. You can't hurt me, because I've been burned so badly already. This will be like a minnow compared to a

whale. A minnow? I asked.

I'll admit I was intrigued. Are you sure? I aked. Yes. You spoke with your eyes and your mouth.

When the wax fell, I gasped, but you were silent. Watching the river of white cool on your palm. We fucked like teenagers that night.

I pull back the sheet and your smell, and our smell, that heavy dampness after sex, washes over me.

My foot brushes your leg, but you're out cold from peach juice and tongues and cocks and I scoot down so that my face is level with

yours.

Baby, I whisper. Lover. Fighter, more like. You're the bull, and I'm the matador. Run at my red cape, die when I slice your heart open

with my cigarette sword.

But die quietly. I can only just hear you breathe, and my eyes flutter shut, and the its just cicadas and the smell of skin on skin.

I sleep and dream about fire engulfing our bed. I'm not afraid.


End file.
